


As Fate Would Have It

by WingedWhale



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2014 winter mystrade gift exchange, Feels, Fluff, Humor, Humour, M/M, Smut, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedWhale/pseuds/WingedWhale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg are driven together by a little luck and a lot of chance. Sparks fly like no sparks have ever flown before. And Greg learns the true depth of the man that's hidden beneath the posh exterior and layers of cunning Machiavellian control. For the 2014 Winter Mystrade Gift Exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Fate Would Have It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



            His career was over. It had just been made official with his sacking two hours ago. Given recent events, he supposed that he really couldn’t fault the Police Commissioner for removing him from the force. He clearly didn’t deserve to be a Detective Inspector with the London Metropolitan Police if he was capable of so grossly misjudging a man’s true character after knowing him for nearly seven years. Indeed, he was lucky that his job had been the only thing they’d taken. If the wind had blown a little differently, he could have easily ended up in Brixton.

            God, he was still reeling from the blow. Even now, three days after the murder suicide of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade’s mind was having great difficulty accepting reality. He tilted his head and gulped down another shot of Jameson’s. His throat burned from the continued assault of the hard liquor. He didn’t care; in fact he quite liked the sharp sensation. It meant he could still feel something. Ah well, another half an hour and he wouldn’t even have that.

            He was alone in the world. A forty-nine year old newly unemployed divorcee without so much as his good name even left to him. At least he didn’t have to pay alimony. His wife had married her fancy barrister boyfriend (much to the PE teacher’s dismay) the very second their divorce was finalized. He didn’t have children. He had a cat he was rather fond of, but unless he was able to find work soon, he’d have to give up the animal in order to live in a cheaper pet-free flat. Unless something of a miracle happened it was only a matter of time before he had nothing and no one in his life at all.

            Even now there was a part of him that stubbornly refused to believe that Sherlock had violently murdered John despite all evidence to the contrary. He fleetingly wondered if that might mean he needed psychiatric intervention. Maybe a lobotomy?

            Heaving a world-weary sigh, he motioned the bartender over with a lift of his glass. “I think I’m done with the Jameson’s. Bring me a boilermaker when you can?”

            “Sure thing,” the man replied, taking Greg’s empty shot glass.

            As he waited for his mixed beer, Greg found himself deeply craving a cigarette, lamenting London’s smoking laws. He had about seven thousand pounds in his bank account. He reckoned he could at least double that if he went and sold his Vauxhall. But that wouldn’t solve his greater problem of being unemployed. He knew he could go to his parents for help if he needed to, or his sister, but the thought alone put such a bad taste in his mouth he refused to think about it. Though at the very least, he knew one of his relatives would be willing to take his cat in if necessary so she wouldn’t end up in some cramped cage at a shelter. That was a tiny bit comforting.

            He currently had roughly eighty quid in his wallet. The bartender placed his beer in front of him and Greg took an immediate long pull of the brown and gold liquid. Narrowing his gaze, he studied the how the darker ale diffused into the lighter coloured lager.

            He took another drink a second before he noticed the sound of approaching footsteps. Loud and rather hurried footsteps, coming up from someplace directly behind his left shoulder. With years of instinct kicking in, Greg immediately turned to look at the approaching person before said person could step across the boundaries of his personal space.

            And suddenly he was looking into the stark depths of Mycroft Holmes’ cool blue eyes. Greg swallowed and blinked rapidly, having been caught off guard by the sight of the man before him. For one, the man was wearing a pair of large black plastic eyeglasses, that gave him the appearance of a rather dashing computer programmer.

            _Good God,_ Greg thought as his gaze travelled over Mycroft’s form. He almost wondered if he was hallucinating and perhaps someone had slipped the best drugs ever into his drink. Mycroft was wearing a pair of tight fashionable Levi’s along with a black Dr. Who tee-shirt with the TARDIS outlined in electric blue light. Greg could safely say he couldn’t have been more shocked had Mycroft turned up in front him absolutely starkers. Why was he dressed in such an _unmycroftlike_ outfit? What exactly did the man want with him? And what the hell was he supposed to say by way of greeting? _Oh hullo, I’m sorry your brother turned out to really be a murdering psychopath after all? Suppose the joke’s on us, yeah?_ While that might have been what first sprung to mind, it was hardly the appropriate sentiment to put forth when talking to Mycroft Holmes.

            There was something in the other man’s eyes that unsettled him. A very silent warning, and if he was anyone to judge, more than a passing hint of desperation.

            Greg watched as Mycroft deftly stole the glass of beer from his grasp and took an investigatory sip. He considered the taste for a brief moment and then took a decidedly longer drink before setting the now nearly empty glass on the wooden countertop.

            “You didn’t answer your phone all afternoon, _darling_ ,” Mycroft told him in his patented “no arguments” tone. To Greg’s ears it was more along the lines of ‘agree-to-play-along-with-me-now-or-face-a-very-nasty-and-unpleasant-danger’. He cautiously held Mycroft’s gaze, noting the import of the statement and unsure of how to respond.

            “Sorry,” Greg told him. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. Got a bit distracted when I lost my job.”

            At this, Mycroft’s face took on a conciliatory expression, a sympathetic pout on his lips. Greg watched Mycroft’s performance of concern, making effort to keep his features from betraying his mounting unease.

            Someone was watching them. It made the hairs at the nape of Greg’s neck stand on end. There was very obviously more to the Sherlock story than what the cards read at face value. But what? And how had he gotten caught in this mess? It was more than a little maddening that he couldn’t very well ask any questions whilst he was in the midst of this impromptu play-acting.

            Mycroft stepped close to him and gave him a soft smile of adoration. He leaned in so that he could whisper into Greg’s ear. And God help him, but Greg’s heart actually skipped a beat when he felt Mycroft’s breath against his skin.

            “The blonde gentleman by the door is watching us. We’re going to have to walk out of here appearing to be a couple. I shall explain everything in detail as soon as we are clear of prying eyes. John and Sherlock are due to Skype from an encrypted server in about an hour or so.” For added believability to the ruse, Mycroft placed light yet lingering kiss to Greg’s ear.

            The now ex-DI swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his composure through sheer dint of will. It was all nearly too much. Mycroft’s right hand settled low on his back, and while he’d heard his words about pretending to be a couple for the benefit of the mysterious spy, his brain was having great difficulty processing the information into his conscious mind. Mycroft’s hand was warm and solid, his long fingers resting lightly against the tired muscles of his lower back. Greg shifted his gaze sideways and carefully looked into Mycroft’s eyes.

            “All right, just give me a second to settle the tab,”

            “That won’t be necessary,” Mycroft told him, sliding a pair of twenty pound notes under the beer glass.

            “Look, you don’t need to-“ Greg began, speaking under his breath so only Mycroft could hear. Mycroft quickly lifted an eyebrow in that very meaningful way of his and Greg had no recourse but to give in. Thank God the pub wasn’t far from a good number of London’s LGBT hotspots because as soon as Greg had pushed back his stool and stood up, Mycroft easily caught his wrist and pulled him close. The ginger haired politician then placed a sound closed mouthed kiss against his lips and drew back with a wide grin. Greg returned the smile, just a little, finding a strange mix of anxiety and arousal coursing through his veins. He entwined his fingers with Mycroft’s and allowed the elder Holmes brother to lead them past the mysterious blonde man who was most definitely covertly watching them from his seat in the corner nearest the entrance.

            Outside, the March evening was blustery as the two men made their way to the black cab that materialised from the shadows and smoothly came to a stop outside the pub’s entrance. Mycroft pulled the door open and motioned for Greg to get in first. Greg didn’t argue and slid across the seats, allowing Mycroft room to sit beside him.

            “Fancy telling me where we’re going?” Greg queried as Mycroft closed the car door and buckled his safety belt. But before Mycroft could answer a sudden meow issued from the passenger seat. Greg’s brow furrowed as the sound came again, this time a bit more plaintive in its tone. He then caught sight of the cab driver for the first time and saw that it was Mycroft’s ever dutiful PA, _Anthea._ “Hang on, did you seriously break into my flat and steal my cat?”

            “In a manner of speaking,” the woman replied. “You know, if I were you, Mr. Lestrade, I think I’d put this kitty on a weight management food, she almost didn’t fit in the travel carrier.”

            “She’s a Ragdoll, they’re meant to be big boned!”

            Greg’s cat gave an insistent meow as if to concur with his statement. Anthea laughed lightly. “It seems she agrees,” the woman told him.

            Greg ran a hand over his forehead and through his hair. “Will someone please tell me _exactly_ what’s going on?”

            “You and your cat are moving into my house in Reading,” Mycroft told him. “James Moriarty was killed early this morning by a man named Sebastian Moran. He knows that my brother isn’t really dead and shot James in what appears to be a fit of rage at having let Sherlock escape their trap. A team of highly trained operatives led by Moran broke into the morgue and found that the body tagged as Sherlock Holmes didn’t really have his DNA. They now realise that either you or me helped him fake his death. Luckily, Moran does not know what I look like.”

            “That was him back at the pub?”

            “Indeed. And though it pains me to say it, the man is even more dangerous than his partner. I had Moriarty in government custody for awhile, and there were signs he was protecting someone’s identity. That someone was Sebastian Moran. While Moriarty was a criminal genius, certainly, Moran was the mastermind. He’s a trained sniper with the SAS, but the real danger is his skill in computer programming.”

            “What does he want with Sherlock?”

            “My brother must have told you about me threatening to knight him, yes?”

            “He made a passing mention of it a time or two, yeah. Why?”

            “Sherlock helped write the source code for MI-5’s data sharing platform.”

            “So Moran now thinks I was in on Sherlock’s plan to fake his and John’s deaths.”

            “He’s watching you, trying to decide where your loyalties lie. If he thinks for one second that you helped my brother and John Watson escape to America, he’ll set his sights on you to force Sherlock to give him algorithm needed to hack the Home Office’s central server.”

            Greg blew out a heavy exhalation. “So you’re taking me into hiding.” It wasn’t a question.

            “Indeed.”

            “What’s your plan to catch Moran?”

            “We’re working on setting up a painstakingly realistic dummy server. I’ll then let a certain access code for the real server leak into Moran’s sphere of notice. He will be fed enough information to believe that he has the means of breaking the entire network’s encryption by extrapolating the rest of the sequence. We then reroute the servers and let him hack into the fake one. The very second he does, he’ll be arrested. Sherlock will help track his position.”

            “Sounds like he’s going to be a difficult man to trick.”

            “Yes. Which is why we are giving him a string of very real code to entice him.”

            “Any idea how long this is going to take?”

            “It could be anywhere from one to four months. The preparations still aren’t complete.”

            “Four months?!” Greg yelped. “What am I supposed to do in Reading for four months?”

            Mycroft gave him a sidelong considering look. “You can look after my horse.”

            Greg didn’t know what exactly he had expected Mycroft to say, but whatever it was that really hadn’t been it. He knew his mouth was hanging open as he blinked owlishly at the ginger haired government agent.

            “I’m sorry? Did you just say something about a horse? In _Reading_? _Downtown Reading?_ ”

            Mycroft held his gaze with a look of thinly veiled amusement. His lips quirked up slightly in a knowing smile. “You’ll see what I mean.”

            “That look on your face really isn’t comforting, Holmes.”

            “You aren’t allergic to hay, are you?”

            Greg sent him a look. “Uh . . . probably not? I don’t have any other allergies, so I assume I’d be okay.”

            “ _Splendid_.”

            Greg watched as Mycroft favored him with a wide and deviously Machiavellian grin. And God help him, but Greg found himself smiling back.

 

*       *       *       *        *       *       *       *        *        *        *        *        *      *       *      *

 

            Upon reaching the suburbs of Reading, Anthea pulled into the drive of an ordinary looking two story grey and white house. It looked like any other house in the midst of normal suburbia. As he stepped out of the vehicle, Greg was having a difficult time reconciling Mycroft’s earlier horse comment with the unlikely location for such a creature.

            What the hell, did the man have a secret underground level with a stall and indoor exercise pen?

            “Were you kidding about the horse?” Greg questioned as he hoisted the cat carrier out of the car and shut the door.

            Mycroft narrowed his spectacled gaze on him. “If I were to joke about something, I’m afraid it would be about something a bit more humourous than owning a horse.”

            “Is it a taxidermed horse then?”

            Mycroft shot him a look as they walked to the front door and Greg could tell the man was fighting very hard not to give in to the urge to laugh, the muscles in his face switched as he became frighteningly close to losing his battle. Anthea wasn’t so lucky and she started giggling maniacally.

            “Well is it?” Greg asked looking between them.

            Anthea laughed harder than ever, doubling over against the grey brick that outlined the house’s entrance. She sucked in a breath in a futile attempt to get in enough oxygen before she launched into another hysterical peel of giggles. Mycroft glanced from her back to Greg and couldn’t help but crack a truly genuine grin.

            Mycroft deftly unlocked his door with an efficient flick of his wrist and Greg followed behind him as Mycroft stepped into the foyer. Anthea finally forced herself into some semblance of composure and brought up the rear.

            “I’ve already taken the liberty of setting up a nice litter box in the downstairs loo. Do please release your feline friend.”

            Greg sat the plastic travel carrier on the tiled floor and opened the door. His cat gave a tiny little meow and slowly poked her head out of her box. She looked up at him with inquiring wide blue eyes.

            “Look’s like this is home for awhile, kid,” he told the creature.

            “Let me help her settle in,” Anthea told Greg. “Mycroft can go show you MLP.”

            “MLP?” the former DI questioned.

            “Just through here,” Mycroft said, pinning him with a wry little look of amusement. Greg walked with Mycroft down the corridor running off to the left of the tiled foyer and found himself facing an expansive wooden floored sitting room.

            There were all the things that one would expect to find in an average sitting, room, a modest marble and stone fireplace, a ridiculously high tech entertainment centre, one wall lined with bookcases, a posh looking leather sofa . . . and what first looked like one of those expensive wood paneled dog crates. It was large enough for a big breed; Greg figured it would comfortably accommodate his mother’s Russian Wolfhound.

            However, when he heard what could only be described as a _cheerful_ high pitched whinny issuing from inside, he knew it didn’t contain a dog.

            Greg shot a look at Mycroft. “You have a pet miniature horse. _Inside your house.”_

“Indeed I do. I fondly refer to her as My Little Pony.”

            At that, Greg didn’t bother to stifle his rein in his urge to laugh. His laughter rang out in sharp bursts, and it was rather difficult for him to even so much as _look_ at Mycroft without feeling the urge start bubbling up again.

            “MLP for short then, eh?”

            “Her diminutive name is Em. She’s quite a crowd pleaser with the locals. Especially the children. Last Christmas she wore a Santa Hat and sleigh bells outside of the city’s library.”

            Greg simply stared at him. His brain once again trying to reconcile the image of Mycroft Holmes the Machiavellian spymaster, with his thousand quid suits and coldly calculating personality with the man he saw before him, wearing the nerdy plastic glasses, his legs clad in form fitting denim, the words ‘Dr. Who’ plastered boldly on the front of his tee-shirt. Who was also apparently a man who owned a tiny little horse that he kept all pampered as you please inside of his house.

            Had he fallen into some sort of bizarre alternate reality? A reality where Mycroft Holmes possessed a truly dazzling smile and a welcoming warmth of character?

            Mycroft went into the room and unlatched his horse’s stall door. Greg heard a rustling of bedding and hay as he moved forward to look at the strange little creature that that wickered softly and sniffed affectionately at Mycroft’s hand.

            “She only weighs twenty-two kilos. One of the smallest of her kind. They’re known as Falabellas and originate from Argentina.”

            Greg crouched down and smiled at the mare. Her coat was a deep grey which contrasted sharply with her blond mane and tail.

            “Well hello there,” Greg said softly. The little mare walked towards him and sniffed him curiously. Mycroft opened a bin on the side of the stall and withdrew an apple shaped horse treat. He handed it to Greg, and the former DI felt a tingle of attraction jolt through his nerves as Mycroft’s fingers gently brushed his palm.

            “I don’t think Sherlock expected me to keep her,” Mycroft said as Greg fed the treat to the tiny horse. “He gave her as a birthday gift to me three years ago. You see, I had a real horse throughout my teens and ever since I sold him before Oxford I’ve missed being around them. So Sherlock thought he’d help by getting me a horse I could keep almost anywhere. She stays here most of the time and my PA takes care of her, but occasionally I’ll have her bring Em to London.”

            “She’ll just go right in the car then?” Greg asked.

            “As eager as any golden retriever in the Queen’s Realm. Now do excuse me, I must go change into something my little brother shan’t mock me for wearing before I commence the Skype call.”

            Greg looked up from scratching Em’s right ear and watched Mycroft retreat from the room. Wondering if this was perhaps the very last time he’d ever see the man in such casual attire, he consciously allowed his gaze to settle on Mycroft’s arse. Oh hell, he didn’t even care at this point. It’s not as if the man didn’t know he was attracted to him.

            And then, just before Mycroft reached the doorway, Greg watched him give a jaunty little wiggle of his bum before disappearing from Greg’s view.

            Greg shook his head as if to clear it, hardly daring to believe what he’d seen. There was a sudden forcefully insistent nudge of a velvety soft nose against his wrist. He looked down at his new equine companion and obligingly started stroking the inside of her right ear. He smiled as the tiny horse leaned into his hand.

            “Your owner’s quite the surprising fellow, isn’t he?” he queried in a light tone similar to one he might use for a very young child.

            He heard the crescendoing  patter of feline feet behind him and his cat suddenly bounded into view. Greg snorted in amusement. His cat ran around in a circle a couple of times before dashing behind him to jump on the sofa. Only for a moment though for the feline jumped off the back and ran around to pelt past Greg, startling the miniature horse who jerked her head back at the sudden movement of the flying furball.

            “Oi! SOMEONE GAVE YOU CATNIP!” Greg said loudly.

            “I wanted her to be happy,” Anthea said from the doorway.

            “Yeah, great. So you gave my cat drugs. Are you totally trying to undermine my speech about not listening to peer pressure? You’re going to send my baby mixed messages!”

            “Sorry,” Anthea said, though the wide smile on her face suggested that wasn’t really the truth.

             “Though to be honest, this is probably better than Cici being sick all over Mycroft’s carpets.”

            Anthea smirked in response. “How do you like the little horse?”

            “She’s certainly a friendly thing,” Greg said as he moved his hand from Em’s ear to stroke her cheekbone.

            “You didn’t hear it from me now mind you, but she is rather cute, isn’t she?”

            “That she is.” _And so is her owner,_ Greg thought silently.

            Had someone told him he’d be thinking such thoughts about Mycroft Holmes 24 hours ago without the help of some very powerful hallucinogens he’d have surely laughed in their face.

            However, as things were . . . he was content to bask in the glory of this reality for as long as he was able. His mind recalled the memory of Mycroft’s gentle kiss and the heat of his hand as it had settled onto his back. The thrill of desire that flared to life within his abdomen was certainly not just because it had been years since he’d experienced the sensual touch of another man. No. Perhaps that was certainly a small part of it, but he knew better than to think it was the sole reason.

            Instead it was largely owed to the fact that beneath all of the dispassionate layers of strategic vigilance, there was a ginger haired gentleman with very delicious looking arse and a dazzlingly white grin who loved Dr. Who and little ponies.

            Anthea raised a carefully manicured eyebrow at the former DI. She then cast a quick glance to make sure Mycroft hadn’t yet come down from the master bedroom.

            “I’m going to share something with you that I will never _ever_ repeat again, Mr. Lestrade,” Anthea told him.

            “Okay, let’s hear it.”

            “I’ve been waiting for a moment like this since the first time you and Mycroft met. Your chance has come. Don’t you dare fuck it up, okay? You’ll only get the one.”

            “I . . . How long has he fancied me?”

            “Long enough. And now the Universe has placed you both in a situation where you can finally do something about it. And well . . . he didn’t exactly _need_ to pretend to be your boyfriend to get you out of that pub, did he?”

            A jolt of understanding shot through Greg as he regarded Anthea’s knowing gaze.

            “Thank you,” he said with a smile, feeling ridiculously happy for the first time since he could recently remember. “Anthea, you’re a real gem.”

            “ _Remember,_ you didn’t hear it from me,” she told him with a falsely innocent look on her lovely face.

            “Right, I think I understand.”

 

*           *          *          *           *        *         *           *        *        *        *        *        *        *       *

 

            Anthea quietly let herself out during the Skype call to Sherlock and John. It had been really good for Greg to speak with both of the men and see for his own eyes that they were indeed alive and well.

            Greg now watched from a plush juniper green chair in Mycroft’s study as Mycroft closed his laptop and took a delicate sip of lukewarm tea. Never being one for playing coy, Greg decided he wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Mycroft to make the first move. The man was making a show of rather pointlessly straightening his desk. He’d exchanged his Dr. Who tee-shirt for plain white cotton one. To Greg’s delight, he was still clad in the deliciously tight jeans. Greg wondered if Mycroft had done it on purpose.

            “Did you even bother making up your spare bedroom?” Greg asked boldly.

            Mycroft looked up and pinned him with an openly heated stare.

            “Only as a contingency for the off chance that I wake up with you snoring in my ear.”

            “Ah. A total waste of time then.”

            Greg rose from his seat and fixed a pointed look at Mycroft. He walked over to stand beside the desk. “Anything on here of particular importance?” he inquired.

            “What would you do if I said no?” Mycroft asked softly.

            Grinning with wicked intent, Greg swept his arm across the desk, sending papers and pens and various other objects clattering loudly to the floor.

            “Well someone’s _eager,_ aren’t they?” Mycroft asked in a sinfully silky voice. Greg laid his right hand over Mycroft’s left. He leaned in, his lips just barely brushing against Mycroft’s right ear.

            “You had me from the moment I saw you in the pub. Really _Mycroft,_ ” Greg intoned, dropping his voice down into a sensual throaty purr. He tightened his hand around Mycroft’s wrist. “Prancing about in an outfit like that should be illegal. In fact, if I still had my job, I’d be very much inclined to arrest you.”

            “Such a pity you don’t have those handcuffs anymore.”

            Greg inhaled sharply at Mycroft’s words.

            “Stand up,” Greg commanded.

            Mycroft stilled for a moment and Greg forcibly tugged on his arm, applying just enough force to be meaningful but not truly painful.  When Mycroft was on his feet Greg threw his weight against him, forcing him to pivot around so that Mycroft’s back was to the edge of the desk.

            Without further preamble, the former DI framed Mycroft’s face with his hands and claimed the other man’s mouth as his own. The kiss began without aggression, as both men began to truly savour the sensations of each other’s touch. It then started to slowly build into something decidedly more erotic as they settled comfortably against each other.

            Mycroft’s long fingers began to make short work of Greg’s shirt buttons. His hands splayed against the hard muscles of Greg’s chest, his thumb rubbing across his right nipple. Greg promptly nipped the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. The posh government man who Greg was so used to seeing dressed in woolen suits laughed into the kiss and the smolderingly sensuous sound nearly made Greg lose control.

            Greg allowed Mycroft to slide the material of his shirt over his shoulders and help divest him of the garment entirely. Greg tore his lips away from Mycroft’s, smiling darkly at the reddened skin revealed around Mycroft’s mouth from where the former DI’s whiskers had rubbed it.

            “I hope for your sake that you’ve stashed accessories nearby. I’m not in the mood to let you move very far.”

            “Top drawer,” Mycroft said, a noticeable note of husky desire pushing through his voice. Greg wasted no time in jerking the desk drawer open and extracting the two items inside.

             Greg grazed his lips against Mycroft’s jaw line as his hand flew to the front of Mycroft’s jeans. The man was already half hard within the restrictive confines of the material. Greg unzipped Mycroft’s jeans almost gently, slowly tucking his thumbs into the waistband and peeling the fabric reverently down his body. Mycroft helped him manoeuvre the garment off his body entirely. When the jeans hit the floor and Mycroft kicked them away, Greg yanked the man’s boxer pants and they quickly suffered the same fate as the expensive jeans.

            Greg gazed down at Mycroft predatorily, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of the elder Holmes’ deliciously long blood reddened cock.

            “Good God! Had I known you were hung like that I would have jumped you the very second I laid eyes on you seven years ago.”

            Mycroft caressed him through his trousers and looked into his lust darkened eyes. “Allow us to make up for lost time then, eh Greg?”

            “That means I’ll be shagging your brains out for the foreseeable future. Does that sound like a good start?”

            Mycroft drew Greg’s trousers and pants down over his hips and reclaimed the former DI’s mouth in a hot and filthy kiss, his tonguing shoving against Greg’s and teasing him into a lustful frenzy. Greg moaned shamelessly into the depths of Mycroft’s mouth and thrust his hot erection against Mycroft’s abdomen. Mycroft arched up so that there hardened members met in a heated moment of friction.

            Greg sucked in a sharp breath and threw his head back, the muscles of his neck straining in heady anticipation, “If I don’t start fucking you over this desk right now, I fear I might very well lose my mind,” he murmured breathlessly as he hurriedly opened the condom and put it on with trembling hands.

            “We certainly want you to keep your wits,” Mycroft told him in a rich lust deepened tone.

            Greg’s hands snatched up the bottle of lubricant and soon he stepped back, bringing his hands to clutch at Mycroft’s striking hipbones. Greg gave Mycroft a sharp nudge, making the ginger haired gentleman pivot around so that he was facing the desk. He then settled himself firmly at Mycroft’s entrance.

            He tongued the man’s shoulder with avid interest, making Mycroft let out a soft pleading sound.

            “Are you going to make me beg you? Because if that’s what you want, I shall beg you with every atom of my being.”

            Greg bit Mycroft’s shoulder. _Hard._

“No need to beg,” crooned Greg before starting to ease himself into Mycroft’s body.

            Mycroft choked out a rather breathless whimper and wantonly leaned back, impaling himself deeper onto Greg’s throbbing member.

            “You’re arse is fucking fantastic,” Greg breathed, gasping at the tight heat of Mycroft’s body.

            “Your cock is even thicker than I imagined it would be,” Mycroft said hoarsely. The sound of that always imperious voice turning ragged with desire was nearly Greg’s undoing. He gasped sharply as Mycroft squeezed his muscles experimentally around Greg’s girth.

            “While I pride myself on my sexual stamina, do that again and I’ll come before we’ve even begun.”

            “ _Duly noted,”_ Mycroft said as Greg playfully pinched his arse. He then grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands for leverage and thrust deeply. To his utter delight, the ginger haired man beneath him let out a keening cry as the head of his cock hit home, sliding against Mycroft’s sensitive sweet spot.

            Greg tightened his grip, his knuckles going white as he repeated the motion again, this time with a bit more force behind the movement. Mycroft’s head lolled back in ecstasy as, his spine bowing as he writhed in pleasure.

            Greg slammed into him, falling into a fast consistent rhythm. He quickly lost himself in Mycroft, taking pleasure in the fact that he was solely responsible for bringing this control loving man to such a sinfully debauched state. In all honesty, he nearly enjoyed that as much as the act itself.

            And each time Greg would plow into his prostate, Mycroft would moan a little louder and slam himself backwards to meet Greg’s forward thrusts so that Greg sunk as deeply as possible into his hot orifice. Only in his wildest dreams had Greg ever imagined Mycroft to be so _spirited_ during sex. And the experiencing the fantasy in the flesh was beyond anything he had ever encountered. It was phenomenal in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. It was electrically charged attraction on fucking steroids. Sure, he’d had plenty of great sex in his life. But never had he ever been so thoroughly absorbed by such profound physical arousal.

            Fuck, the feeling went beyond what fell within the bounds of physicality and fell dangerously close to what some would categorise as spiritual. All he knew, it was the best feeling his mind and body had ever experienced. Sex would never be the same again.

            “Oh Greg, _please, don’t stop,”_ Mycroft begged softly, his voice dropping down a good octave as he goaded Greg on by wiggling his bum. “ _Don’t. Ever. Stop. Fucking. Me.”_

Greg took a fleeting moment to reposition himself so that he could stroke Mycroft’s straining cock with his right hand as he rammed himself in and out of his arse. He found Mycroft’s prostate with great accuracy, causing the posh government agent to shudder and pant beneath him. He hiked Mycroft’s leg up with his left hand and threw him half on top of the desk.

            He thrust into Mycroft with renewed vigor, bearing down on him from above. Soon Mycroft’s breathless gasps began to dissolve into true pre-orgasmic cries of pleasure. The sound touched something deeply buried within the former DI and drew it forth.

            Greg growled low in his throat, the sound turning into an animalistic snarl as he drove them on to completion. And somewhere in his mind, the small corner of brain cells that were still functioning at normal capacity wondered if this is was what soul scorchingly pure erotic love was like. Because even the best one night stand of his life could not even hold a candle to _this._ Whatever _this_ was. First time sex with an acquaintance was not supposed to be so powerful that it reached into your consciousness on a nearly fucking cellular level and bordered on an experience that transcended reality.

            No. That was impossible. Only the smoldering charge of carnal desire that sparked and crackled between them was so strong Greg could nearly _taste_ it.

            “I don’t want this to end,” Mycroft said softly, reaching backwards and clutching harshly at Greg’s hip. “I’d be tempted to sell every secret I know just to make this feeling last forever.”

            Sweat beading on his forehead, Greg leaned down and kissed the back of Mycroft’s neck.

            “So it’s not just me then, is it?” Greg asked in a choked voice. “This is also the best sex _you_ have ever had?”

            Mycroft twitched and raised his head. “Until ten minutes ago, I didn’t know the human body was capable of experiencing such powerful pleasure.”

            Greg’s breath caught in his throat as his stomach tightened in an explosion of heated ecstasy. He was very close to orgasm now.

            “It’ll be all right,” he soothed, blowing playfully on Mycroft’s neck. “We have all the time in the world for repeats.”

            Mycroft snapped his head back as Greg once again seated himself fully inside of him. “I . . . I truly hope so.”           

            Greg pulled out slowly before driving forward sharply, earning him a shamelessly loud moan from Mycroft.

            “Okay,” Mycroft ground out. “Fuck me to completion.”

            “ _Yessir,”_ Greg responded gutturally.

            He didn’t waste any more time or brain cells trying to figure out why the hell this sex was so mindblowingly fantastic. Or how sharply his subconscious desires and innermost fantasies arose to life at the feel, smell, sight, sound, and touch of this one man.

            All that mattered now was losing himself entirely in the sheer ecstasy that was Mycroft’s body, the reasons could all be examined later. As if they even mattered at this point. Still, . . . he had never once believed that something as simple as sex could be so colourfully sensory filled and transformative. Damn, they hadn’t even been trying any complicated tantric positions. Good God, what would happen when that factored into the equation?

            Greg didn’t know, but he was more than looking forward to finding out.

            There was an all-encompassing tangible sense of truth that arose within him, telling him that he and Mycroft would have years to explore the depth of this shockingly profound connection.

            He closed his eyes, giving over to the urge to release himself deep within Mycroft. As he rode through the shuddering shocks of ecstasy that were unlike anything he’d ever previously experienced, he tightened his hand around the base of Mycroft’s erection, tipping the other man over the edge as well.

            They drifted, rising impossibly high on the cresting waves of their pleasure, basking in the glory of the purity of their feelings. They fought for breath, sucking extra oxygen into their lungs as they fell through the sharp fireworks of their mutual euphoria. Everything was so bright and sharply focused. The entire whole of reality possessed a startling clarity that neither man had ever experienced.

            And damn if Greg didn’t actually see colours in the decorations of the room that he hadn’t previously known had existed. There was a lovely Mont-Blanc pen lying on the floor with a red russet barrel. Before Greg would have said it was a general rust colour, but now it was a rather vivid red-orange with hints of sepia. Greg blinked as his mind returned sluggishly back to the confines of his body.

            “You know, . . . I was going to get your job back for you once Moran got captured. Now though, . . . I’m . . . not . . . so sure.” Mycroft said, struggling to get his breathing back to normal. “Might you not . . . fancy the . . . idea of becoming . . . my naked housemaid?”

            Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder and chuckled softly.

            “I’ll be anything you want me to be, as long as I get to be it with you.”

            “Right then. I’ll have my PA draw up a salary agreement for you in the morning.”

            At that, Greg mustered just enough energy to swat Mycroft playfully on the behind.

            “Careful, or else I’ll have to fine you for damaging government property.”

            Greg let out a snort. “Right. Have fun with that.”

            “Or maybe you’d enjoy a daily blowjob in exchange for cleaning Em’s stall?”

            “That little horse will have the cleanest stall in all of England. No, forget England, make it the entire universe.”

            “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Mycroft said softly as Greg gently pulled himself out and collapsed on shaking legs into Mycroft’s leather chair.

“Don’t you?” Greg asked conversationally.

             “No. It almost makes me wonder . . .”

            “About?”

            Mycroft pinned the former DI with a startlingly emotional stare.

            “Greater forces of the universe. A higher power. A grand-puppet master or masters orchestrating the nuances of the interconnections of personal relationships on all the planets that support intelligent life. Even if it’s just a bunch of super advanced extra-terrrestrials.”

            “Don’t tell me you listen to _that_ American radio show.”

            “Only sometimes, when I bother to cook myself a proper breakfast. But really, the point is that we both expected to have a nice bout of casual fucking and . . . well, clearly it was rather a good deal more than that. What does that mean for the structure of reality?”

            “That something out there somewhere,” Greg said making a vague motion with his hand, “nudged us onto the same path and brought us together?”

            “And? More specifically?”

            “Um . . . sorry, I don’t think my brain’s working on all of its proper cylinders as of yet.”

            Mycroft stood up and held his hand out to the former DI.

            “Come on, up with you, let’s go upstairs.”

            Greg grudgingly raised himself up out of the comfort of Mycroft’s chair and took hold of his hand. He stifled a yawn with his other hand as they walked out of Mycroft’s study.

            “Going back to what I was saying,” Mycroft began as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “If we accept that had it not been for my brother’s drug habit, you and I would never have known each other, and had it not been for Sebastian Moran, we might very well have continued to live our lives as nothing more than a pair of acquaintances we can agree that the chances of us randomly crossing paths if Sherlock had died of an overdose before you got to him that night would be infinitesimally small. Thus the chances of us sleeping together would be just next to zero.”

            “Okay sure, the odds were against us finding each other.”

            “Indeed,” Mycroft said as they tiredly climbed the stairs. “But we did. And this happened.”

            “I can see how you might argue that as evidence to support the theory of “divine”,” Lestrade said, making air quotes with his hands, “intervention. But you what’s the deeper meaning you’re hinting at?”

            “That Fate may not have just decreed for us to meet. It may very well be that Fate would have us stay together as well.”

            “I think I rather like the sound of that. It sounds better than trying to explain that we somehow had a non-drug induced transcendental out of body experience during sex.”

            “It does, doesn’t it?” Mycroft asked with a small look of amusement as they reached the top of the landing and turned left towards the open door at the end of the corridor.

            “Are we even sure this is really reality?” Greg joked.

            Mycroft cupped the former DI’s cheek and kissed him deeply. His movements were slow and deliberate. He took his time relishing the taste of Greg’s lips on his tongue. After a good moment, he pulled back and looked into Greg’s eyes.

            “If this isn’t reality I’ll happy live in this hallucination for the rest of my life.”

            Greg smiled in brilliant adoration. “That’s actually one of the sexiest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

            “Come to bed, Gregory,” Mycroft said giving him one more soft kiss on the lips before pulling him into his bedroom. The decorations and wallpaper were a mix of chocolate, grey, and creamy beige, with subtle accents in gold. The earth tones were quite aesthetically soothing. Greg had always imagined Mycroft’s bedroom to look like something out of an 18th century painting, decked out to the nines in royal blues, rich warm yellow and blood red burgundy. The colour choices suited him. They bespoke of an alluring understated elegance.

            The men settled into the plush king-sized bed facing one another on their sides.

            “You know, after I have him in my custody,” Mycroft said softly, “I just might give Sebastian Moran a medal of honour.”

            “Though if what you say is true, he has nothing to do with it. More like you should endeavor to track down the force that made him cross Sherlock’s path and give it a heartfelt thank you card. And maybe some celebratory beer.”

            Greg then moved forward and captured Mycroft’s lips in one more sweet kiss before allowing sleep to wash over him.

            “Sleep well,” Mycroft said softly. “I’m . . . rather glad you’re here.”

            “Finally, right? I can’t believe we danced around it for so long when we could have been doing this all along.”

            “There’s only one thing that truly matters, Gregory.”

            “What’s that?”

            “We’re doing it now.”                                                                                                           

Mycroft settled into the pillows and closed his eyes. Greg watched him, marveling at how reality had suddenly become better than his very greatest fantasies. He had been attracted to the beautiful enigmatic man next to him for so long that he’d envisioned thousands of scenarios of how he might win the man’s interest. Yet, he’d always been unsure of how Mycroft would respond to his advances, thus he’d never voiced his interest aloud.

            He never imagined that it would be Mycroft who initiated a deeper relationship. He leaned back and closed his eyes. It seemed that Mycroft wasn’t so unlike his little brother after all.

            For even the great and powerful Mycroft Holmes could do things crazy things. Even if the man’s behaviour in the pub was the only time in his life that he threw caution to the wind, Greg would know and remember that no matter what there was a warm and playful spirit locked deep within the man.                          And Fate had chosen him to receive the pleasure of witnessing its brilliance. His last thought before drifting to sleep was that he was surely the luckiest man on Earth.


End file.
